


in the cradle of the light

by essektheylyss (midnightindigo)



Series: sanctuary in shadow [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Betting Against God, Blasphemy, Gen, Suicidal Ideation, so much blasphemy, this is just hubris of wizard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26918545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightindigo/pseuds/essektheylyss
Summary: In a darkened chapel, Essek makes a bet for his soul with a god he doesn't believe in.
Series: sanctuary in shadow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964074
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	in the cradle of the light

**Author's Note:**

> companion piece to a bargain with my mother's god because I could not let this image go.
> 
> not necessary to read that first, but if you want some shadowgast content head on over!

The hallways of the Den Thelyss manor wind in a geometric spiral, closer and closer to the center, where they converge upon the twelve-sided chapel the occupies the heart of the building, a geometric dome of glass marking its peak. 

On days of worship, the heat in the chapel is stifling, the sun streaming through the glass from overhead, the den gathered inside at its zenith, but when it is dark the room is cool, cast in shadow, and it is beautiful in its own harsh way, all sharp lines and stained glass into the next rooms, rows of benches all turned toward the center, sloping into a pit in the center where there is a pool of water and a slab of stone that is only used to end the current life of those who have reached achess.

In the sun, everything is royal purple and platinum, but in the dark, it is indigo and silver, all the sheen of the night sky, and the silence to match.

It has always been Essek’s favorite haunt in the manor, long after his mother has gone to sleep. Strictly speaking it is not a place he should be without her supervision, but it has never been explicitly forbidden either, and he walks on a razor’s edge of things he is not forbidden to do.

He has slept in this house for forty nights now, since the day he learned of his father’s death, while his brother has returned to the barracks in the Lucid Bastion, preparing for a deployment to the gods know where. And every night he has skulked through this chapel, sitting where he can watch the stars pass overhead, tracking their movement night after night.

And for half a week now, he has folded and unfolded a sheet of parchment hand delivered to him by an Empire spy with a wicked smile, even under her drow disguise, before she had vanished into the night.

And for half a week, he has gazed at the rapidly approaching date listed upon it; he had had to translate its deadline to his own calendar, and it feels like awaiting his own execution.

And that may be his end, if this razor is the path he continues to follow, growing sharper with every barefooted step he takes upon it. He has not bled yet for it, but it is only a matter of time.

“I will strike you a deal,” he says finally, on this third and final night, before the morning comes when he descends. The moon is full overhead, as though a hand has placed it among the splash of shadow that is the Rosohna sky. He knows full well what hands have set it in its place, in this city at least—his are among them. 

Sehanine may rule the moon, but he can choose when it shines.

“If,” he says, and holds up the note to read its elegant script, penmanship that he would only expect of an archmage, “it is discovered that there is no such entity as the luxon, then I will be a legend. And if there is such an entity, one that is cruel, then I will release my den—my family—from its captivity, as we were released from Lolth, and I will be a hero.”

He folds the note again and tucks it into a pocket on his shirt, pressing the pads of his fingers into his thighs to hide their tremble.

“And if you exist, if Mother is not misguided—if you mean to bring our people to some kind of elysium—then I will die a criminal, and you can take my soul and do with it what you please,” he says, his voice stronger than his hands. Tomorrow his hands will not shake, but tonight he can allow them to fear what will come of what he is about to do. “That is the deal I make of you.”

There is not a soul to hear him, so if anyone does, it is the light overhead, the artificial moon that he has built. Perhaps he has created his own god—he is yet unsure of what that makes him, but he is certain he will live to find out.

It is blasphemy, but he has committed enough of it tonight—what is one more transgression? He stands and crouches at the pool’s edge, and dips his hands into the water. It falls over his face as he tilts his cupped palms above his head, and he holds his breath and imagines the deal is struck now, this deal he makes with his mother’s god in the light of the moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought!


End file.
